


have you no idea that you're in deep

by Theboys



Series: what a time to be alive [7]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, Hospitalization, M/M, Marriage, basketball player!Jared, journalist!jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 20:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11112438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: “Fuck,” he says, just loud enough for JD to hear, “you’d think I was dying just because Jay decided to fuck a baby into me.”Jensen has an appointment, and their son is a bit of an attention hog.





	have you no idea that you're in deep

**Author's Note:**

> y'all. i was trying to save this one for you guys bc i suck at posting and timeliness in general, but i could not EVEN BELIEVE YOU WERE STILL READING THIS/INTERESTED. so if you guys still wanna follow this journey, i'll keep pumping them out, as best i can. og squad.

“He’s not gonna like this, Jensen.”

Jensen’s hands tremble a bit as he struggles to button his coat, misses two buttons on his way down his swollen stomach.

He sways back upright, dizzily, and JD steps forward, finishing off the row himself. 

“You sure you can’t wait for him,” JD says dryly, brow furrowed as he takes in the cold sweat Jensen’s sporting.

“I want to go before he gets back,” Jensen says, as stubbornly as he can for a grown man that just needed help getting into his own clothes.

“He’s not gonna be happy he missed this,” JD tries again, but Jensen’s color rises in his cheeks and he knocks JD back a step, uncharacteristic violence.

“Well, I’m not happy I’m missing the second Cavs matchup of the season, but you don’t see me complaining, do you?!” Jensen says hotly, and there’s a hint of a smile on JD’s face, and that just pisses him off further.

Jared’s spawn chooses that moment to stretch, putting undue pressure on Jensen’s bladder. 

“You!” Jensen hisses, “calm down in there!” Jensen puts a hand on his lower back and navigates around the blockade that is JD. “It’s not like you’re not getting enough attention as it is,” Jensen adds, momentarily forgetting that there’s someone around to listen to his baby talk.

“I’m driving, then,” JD says, voice toneless. 

Jensen doesn’t even bother facing him, continues on his slow waddle to the door. “I can still see my feet! I don’t need a chauffeur! Chris was gonna meet me, anyway,” Jensen says, and JD laughs, a still unfamiliar sound, despite all of their history.

“Remind me to stay out of Jay’s way when you tell him this story,” JD rumbles, but Jensen’s just about all fought out, and he doesn’t make a sound when JD gently moves him out of the way so he can reach Jensen’s car first. 

It’s a bigger car than Jensen’s used to, BMW X6, and Jensen’s usually more interested in the next breaking story than whatever car Jared’s fascinated with that day.

JD shares Jared’s obsession, and Jensen watches with good humor as JD inspects the exterior with a critical eye.

His son kicks, a bit petulantly, if Jensen’s familiar with the feeling, and he cups one hand around his belly in acknowledgement.

JD hums in satisfaction, then comes around to open Jensen’s door, and decidedly ignores the eye-beams of death Jensen’s attempting to murder him with.

“Fuck,” he says, just loud enough for JD to hear, “you’d think I was dying just because Jay decided to fuck a baby into me.”

JD chokes and the tips of his ears flush crimson. “Well, you’re going to an OB appointment without him, so you may as well be,” JD says, and Jensen concedes the point.

The baby kicks once, vicious.

-

Jensen has to sign three autographs in the waiting room, even though he patiently explains that it’s his husband who is the superstar, and Jensen’s pretty much famous for carrying his baby.

He means it mostly in jest, but sometimes it’s hard to remember that even if his sports coverage is heavily sought, most lay people aren’t gonna recognize him from Adam.

He loves Jared enough, he thinks, for it to not matter.

It’s mostly a few husbands sitting in the waiting area, all eyeing him speculatively. 

“I’m waiting on my husband,” one says, and Jensen tries to remember the man’s name. 

JD is grabbing him a bottle of water, and Jensen’s trying to worm one hand between the chair and his lower back.

JD’s other men have followed them to the hospital, and, while Jensen’s usually pretty annoyed by the police presence, he doesn’t have nearly enough energy to withstand the amount of press and fannish behavior that accompanies his every movement.

“I’m Terry,” the man supplies, helpfully, Jensen’s sure he believes. 

“Jensen,” Jensen says, and the man smiles congenially. “I know,” Terry says, and Jensen tries not to search for JD in the adjoining corridor.

“I know you get this a lot,” Terry says, and Jared’s son pushes down on his bladder once more. 

“But how do you feel about the game today? I read your piece on the Celtics chances during regular season, and I was just wondering what you’re thinking about today.” Terry looks so hopeful, and Jensen’s so shocked that the guy even reads the newspaper, that he smiles against his will.

“The party line is that my husband can do anything, single-handedly,” Jensen jokes, and Terry chuckles, leaning forward. “But, they’re fairly evenly matched,” Jensen says, thinks back to the team and the injured reserve. “Love’s back on the court, and healthy, but we’ve got a pretty solid starting lineup.” 

Jensen shrugs, abruptly exhausted. Some of that must show on his face, because Terry scoots closer, eyes widened. 

“Hey, sorry to bother you. Maybe you should just, you know, take it easy. You’re looking kind of pale,” Terry adds, sheepish. “Also, my husband would kill me for doing this. He literally just told me not to mess with you, before he got called back,” he says, motioning toward the office doors.

Jensen laughs, genuinely amused, even though it saps his remaining strength, and suddenly JD is there, holding a bottle of water and another of orange juice.

Jeff’s features narrow sharply when he catches sight of Terry, but Jensen flaps his hand in a weak approximation of a wave. 

Jensen snags the bottle just as his phone rings, and he squeaks, embarrassingly, before fishing it out of his pocket.

Jared’s caller ID flashes across the screen, and JD notices, angles his body in an attempt to deflect potentially rabid fans.

“H’lo,” Jensen says, hushed, and Jared comes on the line laughing, and Jensen can just make out Green’s guffaw of a laugh in the background.

“Hey, baby,” Jared says, breathing heavily. “Just wanted to check on you,” he adds, when Jensen doesn’t reply.

“M’fine,” Jensen says, and Jared must wander somewhere quiet, because Jensen can instantly hear him more clearly. 

“You sure?” Jared inquires, suddenly serious. “I know you didn’t want me to miss any games, but. Look, Jen, I’m not coming back to you in the hospital. Not ever again.” Jared pauses, voice heavy. “So I need you to tell me if you’re feeling okay.”

Jensen feels like shit, and that’s the honest-to-god truth, can’t sleep on his right side for the pain, and he’s vomited twice a day for the past week. 

He makes affirmative noises though, because Jared lives and breathes for basketball, and, to the same extent, so does Jensen. Neither of them is giving it up.

“I’m a little tired,” he lies, “but I’m doing okay. I need  _ you _ to focus,” he adds, and Jared laughs loudly enough that people turn to glance in Jensen’s direction.

“You gonna wear my championship ring, sweetheart?” 

Jensen blushes, despite feeling foolish. “I already wear the other one on a necklace,” Jensen hisses, and he can practically hear his husband grin through the phone.

“I promised you once that every ring I won, I was giving to you,” Jared says, in that no-nonsense tone he uses when he’s preparing to hand Jensen the world. It’s enough to make him squirm in the seat, and he glances at JD’s back.

“Could get heavy,” Jensen mutters, and Jared’s voice drops. “I give you a ring,” Jared says, “and you give me that championship ass.”

Jensen chokes on his air and JD stiffens.

Well, shit.

“Shut up,” Jensen says, fully colored, eyes downcast. “I don’t know how you have friends, with a mouth like that,” Jensen says, and then places two fingers on the bridge of his nose, because Jared’s just gonna run away with that one.

“Mouth like what, exactly, baby?” 

JD is standing now, and Jensen knows that the doctor must be motioning for him.

“Mr. Padalecki?” The man says, deep voice carrying across the confined space. The Doc is salt and pepper, and his brow creases as he examines the name.

“What’s that?” Jared says, voice coming into sharp focus. He’s not playing anymore. “You at the doctor?”

Jensen’s no good at lying on command, and Jared knows (and regularly abuses) this.

“Jensen Ross Padalecki, so help me God, if you’re at the fucking doctor’s--” Jensen’s eyes widen and JD catches the look, and groans aloud.

“This is not over,” Jared hisses, and Dre is hollering for him over the cacophony of dribbling. “Tell JD I’m gonna hunt him down if anything happens to you,” Jared says, lightening his voice for the crowd. 

“And you,” he adds, “the game starts at six, your time.”

Jared hangs up without so much as a bye your leave, and JD opens his palms in question.

“Well?”

Jensen scratches at his head and gratefully accepts the hand to his elbow as he rises. 

“Honestly? Not as bad as we thought!”

-

Jensen’s chewing on ice chips when the game begins, and JD’s supplied him with enough fluids and pillows to kill a lesser man.

JD’s gone to call Jensen’s assistant and tell her,  _ sorry, I know it’s your day off, but Jensen has severe preeclampsia and may need you to look up an in-home nurse _ \--and Jensen’s stubbornly ignoring the idea that he has any issues at all.

“You’re an ass, you know that?” Jensen says, thumping his belly gently.

“Your daddy travels the world to play a sport he’s gonna make you play one day, and I can’t even go with him,” Jensen says, tapping his stomach again, “because you’re raising my blood pressure to 160/80.”

His son doesn’t have much to say to that, naturally, and Jensen rubs at his child as best he can.

He can see Jared practicing threes with the rest of the team, hair slightly sweaty already. Jensen’s tracing the broad line of his husband’s shoulder, and he’s unsurprised to feel himself hardening.

It’s strange, to be this exhausted and still aroused, and he figures he’s gonna have to tell Jared he’s gonna be doing all the work for the next few months.

The sportscaster is winding down the sidelines in an attempt to score pregame interviews, and Jensen watches as LeBron makes a three he won’t possibly make, come game time.

Jensen grabs his phone for a text, keeps his eye on the time.

_ What do you think of Breccan as a name _

_ Don’t answer that. Sounds like breakfast. I’m hungry. _

_ Dominic? _

_ Stop laughing. It’s an intimidating name _

Jensen pauses, blinks the black spots from his vision.

_ Don’t be mad. This is a big game. And if you’re mad it’s just gonna prolong the time between you fucking this ass _

Jensen hits send before he can re-think, and then he remembers, climbs out of bed so he can grab the little package he’d custom ordered a week ago.

He hopes JD doesn’t decide to roam in, because it took Jensen long enough to get out of his clothes, and he’s not wrestling those bad boys back on anytime soon.

He unwraps them from their packaging and glances up at the TV. They’re on commercial. The game doesn’t start for another half hour.

They’re the same exact size, so miniscule that Jensen can feel his heart skip a beat, as idiotic as that makes him feel.

They’re just a bit bigger than the palm of his hand, which means that Jared’s would swallow them whole.

His hands are shaking as he angles his phone--landscape, so he can get both in the frame at once. 

He flips them over afterwards--and there’s the final touch, ‘PADALECKI’ and the number one printed in such small script across the back.

They’re the smallest onesies Jensen’s ever seen in person, and the first is UNC-colored, carolina blue and white lettering. 

The second is modeled off of Jared’s Golden State jersey, royal blue and gold, and Jensen sends them both as attachments and tries not to cry.

Why does he even want to cry?

His phone buzzes rather quickly--Jared generally doesn’t even bring his phone out of the locker room--it’s not allowed.

_ we are not naming our son after Vin Diesel _

_ I can fuck that ass anytime. Rain or shine.  _

_ call me the mailman _

_ bringing an express package _

There’s a pause on the influx, and Jensen watches as  _ delivered  _ shows up just underneath the photos.

_ jesus christ. you can name our son anything you want. I love you so goddamn much. Wish me luck _

Their son kicks, more like a love-tap than anything else, and Jensen folds both palms over the curve.  __   
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> s/n, what do you guys think they're gonna name the kid?


End file.
